


Thrown to the Lion

by Ki_ru



Series: Into the Lion's Den [5]
Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dark Themes as usual, Denial so fierce Lion should have whiplash, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Praise Kink, Safeword Use, Unhealthy Relationships, Wax Play, pain play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 22:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21144305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ki_ru/pseuds/Ki_ru
Summary: All the arbitrary rules Bandit made up, all the walls he erected - none of them sufficed. He's getting in too deep (and not in the fun way). There's only one course of action to take and he'd like to believe it's the right one.





	Thrown to the Lion

He won’t stop sucking.

Despite how he’s been maltreated – and his jaw, like the rest of his body, must be _aching_ –, he just keeps going, slurps wetly and greedily gasps for air whenever prompted, but it’s a miracle he hasn’t passed out or turned his entire mouth into a bruise. The noises he produces are obscene, and so is the rest of his body: sin incarnate. Scratches run along his ribs, not bleeding anymore yet bright red and undoubtedly still tender; they’re a parting gift, something for later. They’ll stay and serve as a reminder. The stripes on his pale thighs are more for memories, impersonal, inflicted with a tool rather than fingernails, and therefore contain no message. The scratch marks spell it out very obviously: _mine_.

Not visible from this angle but vibrant in his mind, dull white specks are scattered over the back and the beautiful curvature further down. They were met with pained groans whenever a new drop hit the skin, a fluttering of muscles following the brief unbearable heat, and once it’s faded, the sensation had already moved elsewhere. The instant knee-jerk reaction was addicting and so his ass is basically covered in the malleable material. His cock is leaking a little but otherwise soft, the ropes around it disappeared after his earth-shattering orgasm and so has the toy from inside – the only trace remaining on his genitals themselves are more bits of wax here and there. He begged no but ended up liking it. As usual.

Hands are bound above the head and probably itching like mad, though the extra fabric cushioning the harsh metal prevented any injuries. There’s even a pillow below his knees, and still the trail of tears is unmistakable on black-tinted cheeks, labelled with crude words. No kid gloves. The blindfold sits tight over intense eyes and the very lips currently occupied with wrapping tight around a rock hard cock are swollen and deep red.

Despite all that’s been done to him, Lion is still trying to suck Bandit’s soul out the tip of his dick, and he has no clue how to deal with it.

“Fuck”, he breathes and yanks on auburn hair, mostly to remind himself that _he’s _the one in control, not the cocky Frenchman kneeling before him and sucking like his life depended on it. So far, Lion has rarely had his mouth on Bandit’s cock, and he must’ve practised. Little shit. He pulls harder, relishing the malcontent grunt it earns him, and adjusts his stance, slides impossibly deeper into this hot cavern robbing him of every coherent thought.

Their session was a good one, focused, not much talking – he wrenched every last sound out of Lion he could and did so even more methodically than he usually does. He doesn’t admit to himself why he took a step back and let the candles, vibrators and paddles speak for him, doesn’t admit he took his time scribbling on Lion’s cheeks, their faces close, breath mingling. He smells nice, of coconut and sweat and coffee, weirdly enough. After he was done, Bandit used his nails to claim him. He lies to himself about this, too, tells himself Lion needs to know his place. Needs to know not to stray.

Even though he never would. Bandit is well aware that bright blue eyes would be digging into his skull if it wasn’t for the cloth separating their gazes; they wouldn’t leave him for a second unless instructed otherwise.

But then his mouth was too inviting and a reasonable alternative to pounding a load into him directly, so Bandit picked him up and told him to start sucking. And he hasn’t stopped since.

“Jesus fucking Christ”, he mutters and only just catches himself before he comes, drags Lion off his cock and inhales deeply. Too hot. The room is too hot but he’s not opening a window, not yet, and Bandit himself is, sweat beading on his forehead, and Lion is –

Right now, in between gasps, he’s smiling.

“Good boy”, says Bandit and it’s as if he can feel Lion’s immediate shudder against his own body. The smile slips and his expression goes slack, and the slight twitch of his spent cock further down betrays him: he loves the nicknames. Still does. “Don’t suffocate yourself, kitten, go slower. I want to enjoy this.” A nod. He’s trained him well, by now he only speaks when allowed. His mouth opens obediently and Bandit pushes back in, is welcomed by an eager tongue and eager throat, and he nearly comes again when Lion moans like he’s having his prostate tickled.

Fuck. It’s too good. Shit.

Mercy wins and convinces him to just give in, not torture him any longer after he’s gladly endured all that Bandit dished out, and so he buries both hands in soft hair and guides the willing head against the gentle thrusts of his hips. It’s the first time he’s face fucking Lion, therefore takes it easy despite the insistent pull and tug of climbing pleasure behind his eyelids. He’s close, has been close for more than ten minutes, and now all Lion has to do is finish him properly, comply, bear with him a little longer. Bandit’s gaze rakes over him hungrily. He’s gorgeous, even more beautiful all debauched and choking on Bandit’s cock.

“That’s it, love”, he encourages softly, making Lion squirm in pride, “you’re doing great. It feels amazing. Keep going like this, pet. Yes. Good boy.”

Lion gives another hard suck, and paired with the tip of his tongue massaging all along the underside of Bandit’s shaft, it’s too much. He pulls him flush with a satisfied growl and climaxes much more intensely than he expected – the last hour is catching up to him, all the anticipation that’s built up finally released, and so he won’t stop coming, almost folds in half, moans blissfully, even shivers as his abs contract rhythmically with every spurt. For a few moments, he’s caught up in this ecstasy, loses all sight and sound and concentrates only on the sweet relief rushing through his system, the tension dissipating and leaving behind nothing but a serene peace of mind.

Panting, he frees Lion’s head and pushes the blindfold off to signal they’re done playing. As expected, a heated gaze meets his immediately and the smile accompanying it is positively lovely. Lion is an absolute mess, and yet he’s never seemed happier.

“You’ve done well”, Bandit tells him and watches as the smile widens. “See what happens when you play along? You don’t have to suffer. See how nice it is?”

He reaches out, wants to wipe off an excess drop of his come yet Lion stretches towards his touch, tilts his head into the resulting caress. Cute bastard.

And Bandit is about to mirror this blinding smile when the goddamn asshole opens his mouth and lets all of Bandit’s semen flow out of his mouth right into his hand. He didn’t swallow at all, savoured the bitter liquid only to give it back, lets it run through Bandit’s fingers and drop onto his socks and the pillow and he looks so fucking _pleased_ with himself Bandit is too gobsmacked to slap him.

At least he didn’t actually spit. If he had, he might’ve taken a knee to his nose for the gesture.

As it is, Bandit is largely powerless: play is over, both of them have come and Lion has suffered enough for today. There’s not much he can do to extinguish that shit-eating grin on the brat’s face, and it’s worse that Lion knows it. Picked the moment so deliberately. Disgruntled, Bandit wipes off his sperm in Lion’s hair and feels a tug on the corners of his mouth when the redhead actually _laughs_ while attempting to dodge. Yeah, really fucking pleased with himself. Twat.

“I’ve half a mind to make you lick it off the floor and suck it out my socks”, he grumbles and snaps the handcuffs open, allows the other man to slump and let exhaustion take over.

“Not before I can feel my jaw again please”, comes the slurred reply. He’s crashing fast, mirth fading and making way for the usual empty expression following their sessions. Bandit works quickly, brushes off most of the wax onto an old towel for easier clean-up and postpones the rest until after a shower.

“Come on. Get it off and then we can go to bed.” Lifting Lion to his feet is like carrying a sack of potatoes, though the Frenchie finds his feet after a moment. His head is lolling about as if he was drunk, and Bandit silently vows not to involve candles again – not that they don’t like them, but the clean-up interferes with immediate aftercare and with how much Lion takes without complaining, bringing him down gently is a task in itself. They’re half wrapped around each other and Bandit tries not to touch any sore spots, feels for Lion’s body temperature and watches him like a hawk. He’s uncharacteristically limp, eyes unfocused now that all tension is leaving him. They’ll have to be quick.

Throwing all restraint overboard, Bandit rids himself of his clothes and pushes into the shower after Lion for the sake of convenience. Scrubbing him down is a quick process accompanied by plenty of whining Bandit ignores, but when he raises the shower head above Lion’s shoulders, the warm water takes on a pink tint.

Bandit’s first thought is: _does he dye his hair?_ And then, once he realises that this definitely isn’t it: _shit fuck holy crap_.

Somehow, he manages to get Lion out of the shower before his wobbling ceases and he actually collapses. Bandit only just catches him and, dripping everywhere, drags him back into the bedroom to toss him on the mattress, bleeding head wound and all. Bandit’s panic is overwhelming, all alarm bells ringing and thoughts racing a mile a minute – what did he do? Did Lion hit his head in the shower? On the way there? During play? He can’t remember, can’t remember hitting him on the head deliberately or accidentally, but something must’ve happened.

Lion is unconscious for less than a minute, but even thirty seconds are enough for Bandit to work himself up into blind terror. Even so, he raises Lion’s legs, stuffs some gauze between wet hair and pillow and is just about to fetch some cold water when the kid opens his eyelids. They stare at each other for a heartbeat.

“The fuck did you do?”, Bandit wants to know, sounding angry for a reason he’d never admit.

“Hit my head at work.” The response is sluggish. “I’m cold.”

Okay. At least it’s not Bandit’s fault. Breathing a little easier, he helps Lion under the blanket before towelling himself dry. Sweatpants is all he pulls on, then he gets something to eat and drink for the reckless idiot currently soaking his bed. He’s deathly pale and the smeared words on his cheeks don’t make him look any healthier either.

“I’m alright”, Lion stresses when he notices Bandit’s hard stare. “Really. My circulation just died, probably the hot water. I’m -”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bandit expects excuses and excuses he gets. “It wasn’t that bad, I don’t know why -”

“You’ve almost bled through the bandage already. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I – it was two days ago, I thought it’d be -”

“Stop with the fucking lying, kid.” His voice is harsh. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Why didn’t you tell me?”

And once again, Lion flips. “Don’t treat me like a fucking child. You can’t have it both ways. You want me to take responsibility and still you deny me any independence.”

Oh. It’s not the first time he brings up the topic, and it won’t be the last time Bandit shuts him down instantly. In some ways Lion isn’t far off – Bandit doesn’t treat him like an equal, that much is true. Mostly because he doesn’t trust him. The feeling of nursing a snake back to health and expecting it to bite any second is unshakeable, and Lion has proven he takes an arm whenever a finger is offered several times. Recently, he’s been suspiciously compliant, which puts Bandit even more on edge.

Or so he’d like to think.

“This, kiddo? This is what a dealbreaker looks like”, he states, serious, and points to the crimson fabric. The redhead frowns, clearly not getting it. At least the cool water is doing its part in returning some colour to his cheeks, and his reactions aren’t as muted anymore. “If I can’t trust you to let me know when something’s wrong with you, I refuse to play. This is absolutely fundamental and non-negotiable, you need to -”

“I’m sorry.”

“- whenever there’s _anything_ wrong, no matter how…” Bandit trails off mid-sentence and meets the level gaze with confusion. “…what did you say?”

Lion patiently repeats: “I said I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll tell you next time.”

He _what_.

The words still fail to register, because – did he just - “Yes. Yes, you will. No need to feel like I’ll go easy on you, kitten.” His mouth works on autopilot as his brain hasn’t caught up to what just happened.

And as if nothing happened, Lion sits up and stretches. “Can we go watch something now?”

  


An hour later, Bandit’s mind is still reeling. Focusing on the moving pictures on the large screen is nigh impossible so it’s good they’re watching a film he’s seen a thousand times already – they do this often enough, let something run in the background while they’re dozing or on their phones. Tonight, Lion is draped over him, nose tickling Bandit’s neck and breath caressing his collarbone, soft hair brushing over his cheek. He didn’t bother putting on a shirt, but Lion did, so they’re not sweaty and sticky. Warm palms run along his exposed sides and fingertips linger where his tattoos stand out a little. Lion is a comforting weight and a lovely source of heat, and Bandit will never get over the fact that he _apologised_.

Since aftercare was rudely interrupted by Lion bleeding all over his bed and the eventual cleaning a quick, impersonal affair, Bandit is gentler with him now, pets his back and hooks one of his legs around Lion’s, allowing physical proximity to make up for all the pain he caused earlier. The big cat on top of him bathes in his caresses, that much is obvious, stretches towards them and snuggles closer now and then.

It’s domestic. It’s almost – _nice_.

“Doc told me of that cute brunette you’re flirting with”, he mumbles into ginger hair, half to be a pain and half because it’s something he’s been wanting to bring up for a while. Lion freezes, stiffens, stops breathing. “If it’s the one I’m thinking of, you’ve got good taste, kid.” He’s overdoing it with the condescension, he can tell Lion is irritated. No matter whether he’s being genuine or not, the Frenchie clearly feels patronised whenever he calls him that.

“I’m not flirting with her.” Accusing. Defensive.

“Why not? If she’s interested, why not go for it?” Bandit knows she is. He and Doc have talked about the topic a few times, about the friendly cashier at the store around the corner who’s long familiar with the parade of well-built guys purchasing lunch items, and yet a certain redhead caught her eye. Whenever Lion comes in, she makes time for a few jokes, brilliant smiles and a friendly wave. She’s pretty. Bandit would rather hang himself than hook up with someone like her, but Doc has mentioned rosy cheeks in his tales and so it seems Lion doesn’t share his opinion.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“You’re lonely.” A low blow. He remembers the circumstance in which Lion divulged this information, and it’s mean to exploit it now.

“Don’t be unfair. Just – just don’t. Don’t use this against me.”

Bandit understands what he’s saying: he thinks Bandit is using her as an excuse to get rid of him. If only he knew how close to the truth he is, even if he’s got the motive all wrong. “You wanna get your dick wet, you come to me. But you’re looking for more. You want companionship.” He can tell by Lion’s entire demeanour, the way he desperately seeks to _belong_. “This is temporary.”

The reply is muffled but might as well have been yelled into a megaphone. “… it doesn’t have to be.”

Bandit’s brain screeches to a halt.

How did they get here. Suddenly, Bandit is suffocating, the air around him stuffy, clogging his throat. Neither of them are following what’s happening on the TV, and neither of them have been this entire time, he just realises he listened to Lion’s quiet breaths rather than the dialogue. They’re caught up in each other due to lack of space, forced to interact, forced together, and now they’ve gotten used to each other. Familiarity like a warm blanket relaxes both of them, and when Lion made a half-hearted joke after lying down half an hour ago, Bandit snorted.

Domestic. Bandit got complacent. He lowered his guard and now he has to pay the price.

This is what he pictures: Lion asking the brunette out on a date. No matter whether it works out or not, he directs his gaze elsewhere, somewhere other than Bandit. He visits his son more, has seen him a lot the past months already and become more open about him, more involved. Claire has been hesitant yet vaguely supportive once she realised he’s serious. At work, Lion remains not well-liked but the dislike has lessened considerably. He’s a stubborn brat after all. But he’s started to listen. Bandit sees him doing well.

Without himself by the brat’s side.

“Yes. It does”, he murmurs into Lion’s hair and holds him down when he attempts to lift himself up in protest. It wouldn’t be the first time they fight about this, not by a long shot, and Bandit usually wins through emotional blackmail: _my way or no _way. Lion has no leverage, because he has nothing Bandit wants. Or so he thinks. Surrenders himself with so much desperation behind his attempts of currying favour it borders on pathetic and all Bandit wants to beat into his brain is the idea of some fucking self-worth. No matter how hypocritical it is.

Their proximity takes on a new tint, no longer deeply calm but charged, foreboding. Lion is flexing his muscles and Bandit is getting ready for a physical altercation.

For a long while, they remain motionless, silently daring each other to be the first one to snap. To admit defeat. It’d be the first proper fight ever since those initial ones, the ones Bandit prefers to lock away deep inside his mind as if anything changed by doing so, and he’s worried what would happen if Lion won. How far he’d go. How far Bandit would let him go. Whether stolen affection really measures up to the real thing, and that’s the whole fucking point anyway, isn’t it? It’s certainly why Bandit shies away from all the aimless gestures Lion throws at him like a wolf from a flame. They started out on the wrong foot and only got worse.

Then Bandit defuses the situation, or attempts to, slides his hands down Lion’s body and massages his ass; keeps it up until the human-shaped feline huffs and presses closer again. Back with the emotional blackmail. Bandit knows how starved this kitty is. Lips capture some of the skin on Bandit’s neck, a tongue laps over the spot and he accepts the mutual armistice. They don’t want to fight. Not really. They’d prefer to preserve their energy for more important things than running in circles.

A hard thigh is pressing directly against Bandit’s crotch, courtesy of the new position, and he’s able to ignore it until Lion licks a long stripe over his skin and fuck him, Bandit’s getting hard again. He remembers what that mouth can do and all this suppressed energy, all the adrenaline has to go somewhere after all.

Fingers dive under the ginger’s waistband to feel plump cheeks tensing at his touch – they must still be tender. He claimed this powerful body, marked it, made it _his_ and his alone, and the thought of giving it up leaves behind an uncomfortable feeling of emptiness. If he told Lion right now to fuck himself to completion with one of the many toys stored in Bandit’s box, he wouldn’t bat an eye; would obey immediately and make for a picture too erotic to comprehend – fluttering his lashes at Bandit while he works his hips, biting his lip and never once interrupting eye contact.

If he told Lion right now to fuck himself on Bandit’s cock, he’d do the same thing. Except all his reactions would be genuine.

Lion moans against his jaw and it sounds like half pleasure, half pain, just the way both of them like it. He’s more eager by the second, sucking on Bandit’s shoulder and moving against him, and it’s no surprise to feel a similar hardness pushing against Bandit’s own. It’s frightfully easy to get him going. Frightfully easy, and very hard to stop.

He could ask him to. Command him to, even, and Lion would freeze and pout and whine, but he’d leave it be.

Bandit doesn’t ask him to.

There’s something addictive about lazily dry humping someone, anyone, especially when he’s exhausted after a long day and doesn’t have to do any of the work, can just push his hips up into Lion’s and enjoy the resulting friction. The soft fabric separating them stretches comfortably over their erections and overall, it’s just _soft_, the lighting, Lion’s hair, the thumb brushing over his nipple. He could do this forever, hover in this limbo of uncertainty, of not quite this and not quite that. No need to decide one way or another: whether or not to undress. Whether or not to work towards his second orgasm. Whether or not to keep this pretty creature by his side.

A hungry mouth tickles his ear, sends pangs of pleasure between his legs and quiet moans into his brain. He’s so fucking eager, it’s adorable – he’ll take anything. Give anything. Bandit doesn’t know when Lion started to just _give_ without expecting anything back; it’s a new thing, that’s for sure. He’s getting bold, reaching for Bandit’s cock and stroking it through the layer of clothing, and it’d be the easiest thing in the world to lie back and let him go ahead. The path of least resistance.

“I wanna sleep in your bed tonight.”

Ah. There it is. Bandit can’t help the half-amused, half-bitter smile creeping onto his face and squeezes the ass cheeks still below his palms. “Can’t have both, pet. Either you get me off now or we sleep together. You decide.”

Lion produces an annoyed sound and ceases his ministrations to prop himself up, bringing his face directly above Bandit’s. They’re breathing hard, blood colouring their cheeks and hair sticking up in every direction. Bandit’s tattoos are mirrored by the marks he left on Lion’s body. They really aren’t that different, not right now, and it frightens Bandit to think what they would’ve done to each other had they met ten years prior. There would hardly be anything left of either of them.

“Do you feel guilty?”, the Frenchman asks and it’s a stab to the heart. Bandit didn’t think he’d be that perceptive, would be able to read between the lines. Lion is too close, fills all of his vision; his presence is suffocating. A weight on Bandit’s chest. His smell is everywhere, polluting the air like the scent of flowers, or like grease – Bandit used his own products on him, so this is all Lion himself. His angelic face looks ready to bestow judgement and it’s the single thing Bandit feared above all.

His mouth acts faster than his brain. “I did… inexcusable things to you.”

“I let you.”

“I forced you.”

Pointedly, Lion repeats: “I _let_ you.”

He’s in denial. The realisation is terrifying. He’s rearranged the facts in his head to fit his current infatuation, evaluates past events through a rose-coloured lens and has himself convinced it can’t have been that bad. Time and familiarity have warped his memories but Bandit remembers. Remembers how both of them thrashed and fought against each other every step of the way, turned every interaction into a power struggle, with the only objective of not losing face. Bandit treated him with nothing but arrogance and revelled in the desperation he could conjure up with a few statements. And Lion _hated_ him. He could see it in his eyes, clear as day.

But maybe the edges of what constitutes play and reality really were more smudged than Bandit thought. Not that it’d absolve him in any way, as nothing would change from his perspective. But maybe Lion actually -

No.

He’s getting caught up in this euphemistic narrative.

“We’re fucking poison to each other”, he whispers and means it. They bring out the worst in each other – nevermind the fact that Lion is adjusting to his new life in Rainbow, and also putting aside his improved relationships with family and friends. He could’ve achieved this on his own. Bandit isn’t conceited enough to take any of the credit.

He doesn’t know why they’re suddenly talking about this, but he does know that he can’t let Lion convince him. That he has to set him straight, make him understand just the extent of how far Bandit had gone. Even if it resulted in the ginger leaving.

Especially then.

Lion isn’t a snake which could bite any second. He’s a buck Bandit shot and then cared for because he didn’t manage to kill him with the first bullet. And eventually, he’ll have to set him free again.

“Stop pushing me away”, Lion says with undeserved, misguided, improper adoration in his eyes. He’s never been more dangerous than now, here, traces of black visible on his cut cheeks still, wearing his injuries like medals and caging Bandit in with his large body. He’s not the thrilling kind of danger, not simply adrenaline inducing, excitement generating – he’s paralysing. Chilling. Terrifying.

In a swift and fluid motion which seems much too natural, he leans down and kisses Bandit.

And Bandit lets him.

Fuck it all to fucking hell, he lets him. Opens his mouth, even, welcomes his tongue, swirls his own around it and tilts his head. This has been so long in the making, he’s forgotten why he wouldn’t allow either of them to initiate a kiss, especially when it feels this goddamn lovely. They kiss like lovers. They kiss like it’s their last chance.

Amid the heavy breathing, the repeated collisions, the honey-sweet meeting of lips and the intoxicating play of tongues, the redhead presses close, wraps a hand around Bandit’s throat and leaves it there – resting gently, not a threat but a reminder. He could kill Bandit if he chose to, could strangle him until he stopped moving, and instead he’s sliding his lips over Bandit’s. There’s slight despair in the deliberate touch of mouth on mouth, and devotion. One of them gasps, could be either, and then Bandit pushes a hand into auburn hair, right over the wound, and it’s a signal.

Because Lion goes _wild_.

Somehow, he manages not to interrupt the increasingly frantic kisses while ripping off Bandit’s sweatpants, continues to suckle on his lower lip as he grabs the weeping cock and jerks it slowly, slower than Bandit would’ve liked but fast enough to nudge him closer to his next climax with every upstroke. Bandit just lies there and takes it, wraps a leg around the Frenchman’s waist and moans contentedly into his mouth. Morals can wait. Decisions can wait. Fucking _thoughts_ can fucking wait and if he goes through with what he wants, no, needs to do later, it’ll be a nice goodbye anyway.

“Faster”, he pants and groans when Lion complies immediately, struggling to get the words out in between the scorching kisses, “that’s it. Yes. Keep going, love, just like that.” Above him, the ginger is _melting_ against him, relishing the praise. So predictable. So cute. “Oh fuck. Fuck yes.”

Lion keeps snogging him like he has a lot to catch up on – which he has – and tightens his grip, causing Bandit to thrust up into his fist because it’s exactly what he needed, something to unwind, a moment just for himself. The making out muddles his brain, leaves him dizzy and way too hot, breaks down his composure. At this rate he’ll come too fast to really enjoy it all and he blames the odd mood he’s in whenever Lion’s over; he’s insatiable around him, wants to squeeze every human emotion out of him just to remind him that he’s Bandit’s property. That he _owns_ him. This? This is all a result of months of teasing, taunting, flaunting himself in front of the Frenchman like the most delicious dessert, always _just_ out of reach. (Bandit conveniently forgets the moments when he would’ve killed a man to suck face with Lion without repercussions. A flight of fancy, really, the evening when he rode his brains out nothing more than a momentary lapse of judgement. The itch under his fingernails when they haven’t seen each other in a week an indicator of an unhealthy addiction, and the omnipresent peace inside him when he watches Lion sleep no more than the sugar high he gets when he visits Starbucks.)

And then he makes a crucial mistake: he opens his eyes.

Freckles on prominent cheekbones. Long lashes fanning over pale skin. An aristocratic nose brushing over his own. Lion kisses like someone on death row or like someone in love and Bandit doesn’t know which prospect is more frightening. And then his eyelids slide open; a curious, attentive blue gaze meets Bandit’s amid all the wet tongue wrestling and it goes straight to Bandit’s cock, makes it twitch viciously against the palm wrapped around it. But what really does him in, what shoves him over the edge with how intimate it is – and at this point, they’ve done so much together that nothing should cause a gut-wrenching reaction like this –, it’s the fact that Lion closes his eyes again.

He enjoys being looked at. And he doesn’t mind Bandit being the one to scrutinise him.

It’s a show of trust.

Bandit’s moan when he comes is muffled and strangled, half of it swallowed by the redhead and the other half pathetic-sounding. He notices too late that he was at Lion’s mercy the entire time without the other man taking advantage of it, without him resorting to some power bullshit. All he does is watch Bandit as he spasms under him, twitching and shivering against the solid body on top as he ejaculates all over his naked chest, relief sweetening the shudders. It has the same quality as wanking alone, only without the empty feeling afterwards: quick, efficient, satisfying, reinvigorating. While coming down slowly, he reciprocates quick, sweet kisses and accepts loving caresses as if they were natural.

Even though none of it is. They’ve gone too far, and it takes the onset of sobering up for him to realise fully.

What’s worse, Lion slides down to lick Bandit’s semen off his abdomen, not leaving a trace behind. And he looks so fucking happy doing it.

All of this was a mistake. Bandit shouldn’t have let it get to this point, shouldn’t have progressed past the aftercare cuddling, shouldn’t have allowed Lion to stay longer and longer. It got progressively worse, with the Frenchie invading more and more of Bandit’s space overy time without it ever feeling like a big step, and suddenly they’re watching Netflix while draped all over each other on the couch and debating what to get for breakfast. He even let Lion kiss him.

“Kid”, he starts and the expression before him darkens. “You have to go.”

A blank stare is his reply. Unsurprisingly.

“Listen. This isn’t healthy. None of it. We need to stop.” Lion just shakes his head, as if he could make Bandit un-say his words by refusing to believe him, and denial has already proved to be his favourite way of coping with matters he can’t change. This is a man who didn’t visit his unwanted son for numerous years, after all. He leans down again, weighing a ton, and continues their kissing from before – now tasting bitter, salty, _vile_. “Stop it”, Bandit whispers against his mouth and gets silenced by another press of lips on lips. “Don’t. Olivier, leave.”

“How long until you change your mind this time?” Lion’s voice is silky smooth, pristine like paper and cuts like it too, and his touches as insistent as his kisses. “Hm? How long until you decide you need to take this drowned rat back, this poor nutcase, this orphaned child? How long until you convince yourself I’m better off _with_ you?”

The vitriol behind his questions is palpable and shocking. Bandit turns his head away to no avail, tries to push him off, wiggle free. An iron grip keeps him in place, forces him to accept more unbidden caresses. “Please.”

“You’re such a fucking hypocrite. You refuse to take responsibility. You don’t want me to leave. You _need_ me.”

Bandit feels it coming, the familiar panic rising slowly, his vision narrowing, heartbeat quickening. He hasn’t had an attack like this for a while but remembers the symptoms well. Remembers exactly how it announces itself. His lungs seem to shrink dramatically and he’s trapped, caught in his own web, the very snake he fed fixing him with its unblinking stare. He thinks of waking up to an almost empty room, to _shhhh_, thinks of guys he thought forgotten, thinks of being as significant as a speck of dust. Being treated like one. And with the last bit of air he can draw in without pain, he says: “Malfrat.” It comes out broken, quiet, helpless.

But Lion understands. He looks like he’s been slapped, but he understands. Blinking rapidly in disbelief, confusion, hurt, he sits up, examines the body before him and Bandit feels uncomfortably naked. In more ways than one.

Silence reigns for long, long moments in which Bandit is too occupied controlling his breathing to witness the emotions fighting on Lion’s face, but both of them can tell it’s over. Both of them know Bandit is correct, probably know that Lion is, too, with some of the shit he spews in between the gibberish falling out of his mouth because thinking is hard when you’re a fucking moron, and this is Bandit trying to ridicule him to make him less scary in his head.

Lion has claws. Proves it time and time again that he knows how to use them, and in return Bandit has a fucking gun and maybe a whip too, and they’re both aware that the whip, while it hurts, can’t inflict quite the same amount of damage as large paws with basically knives on them, and so he’s allowed to use it. But Lion grows weary with time. Ever so weary.

He doesn’t seem furious, however. He seems broken.

“Okay”, the Frenchman says weakly. His brows draw together and it’s the last time he makes eye contact before leaving.

He moves around sluggishly, as if he was in a dream, gathers personal belongings and clothes stored at Bandit’s a while ago. Walks past the screen a few times, remaining perfectly mute and refusing to look at Bandit still on the couch, motionless. Maybe Lion will forget about him if he doesn’t move.

The last time Lion exits the living room, exuding disdain, he mutters something in his mother tongue Bandit has no trouble translating: _couard_.

He supposes he _is_ a coward.

When the door slams shut, Bandit puts an arm over his eyes and tells himself it’s for the better. That Lion was wrong on all accounts. He won’t take him back. He doesn’t need him.

And the evening, and the rest of his life, suddenly seems unbearably long.


End file.
